Cruel Summer

Colby’s Journal for Desperate Times Like Right Now

June 16

I can’t believe I’m actually writing in this journal. I mean,
today
, (well, technically it would now be yesterday), when my mom gave it to me, I just looked at her and said, “What’s this?”

And she said, “I thought you could use it to write about all of the exciting things that happen to you this summer.”

So then I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and sighed as loud as I could.

Then I tossed it onto my desk and watched it skid all the way across the top until it fell off the side and tumbled to the ground, as my mom just stood there, still and silent, gazing between the upside-down journal and me.

But I just narrowed my eyes and stared right back, wondering if she was going to yell at me, cry, or both.

But in the end she just shook her head and left my room. And the second the door closed behind her, I’m the one who started to cry.

Though not for too long, since I didn’t want my face to be all puffy and red for the good-bye party Amanda was supposed to throw for me. Even though in the end it really wasn’t much of a party since it pretty much consisted of a six-pack of her brother’s beer, a bag of chips, and us.

Well, at least until she made a few calls—

Okay, I was just about to write the rest of the story, but then I decided to stop because it feels really weird to be confessing in this thing. I mean, as much as I’d like to write about
EVERYTHING
that just happened (and trust me, there’s
PLENTY
to write about), because I’m thinking it might really help me to get it all down on paper and maybe even clear my head and put it all back in perspective, the thing is, I can’t help but think—
what if someone reads it?

I mean, it’s not like you can password protect a leather-bound notebook.

Not to mention how I can
STILL
hear my parents totally yelling and screaming downstairs, which is not only making it hard to concentrate, but also freaking me out to think what will happen when they come up here to check on me while I sleep (because that’s what they always do after they’ve exhausted themselves from one of their arguments and are ready to call it a night and head off to their separate rooms), and maybe even end up peeking at what I’ve written.

And even though I know that probably sounds totally paranoid, in light of how they’ve managed to wreck just about every aspect of my life, I think the breakdown in trust is completely justified.

So, with that in mind, it’s better to just sign off for now and continue this at another time, in another place.

Or not.

June 16

Text Message:

To: Amanda

Message: This is the last txt msg Ull get from me bcuz IM packed N ready N lvg 4 LAX v soon so I wanna say bye N also 2 say last nite was soooo fun but it also makes lvg that much harder I still cant believe my rents R doing this 2 me O well Plz say bye 2 Levi 4 me N plz give him my email cuz I 4 got 2

K, ttfn, Colby

Colby’s Journal for Desperate Times When She’s Stuck at 37,000 Feet Where There Is No Internet Access

June 16

I tried. Really, I did. I gave it my best shot, but here I am anyway. Sitting on this stupid airplane, next to some stupid, smelly old man, in seat 37G, which is the second-to-last row, just around the corner from the toilets (which, believe me, I can totally smell) and right next to the window in case I want to open the shade and gaze out at—nothing. Seriously, there’s nothing out there but miles and miles of white cloud tops.

That’s how high up we are.

That’s how far from home I am.

And it would all be fine and worth it if I was going to end up somewhere good, but I just happened to peek at the first page of the guidebook my dad slipped me at the airport and this is what it says:

Um, excuse me? Religious pilgrims? Least commercialized? And those are the good things?

And if that wasn’t bad enough, it then goes on to say:

And then it waxes all rhapsodic over some stupid natural spring in some stupid main square in some stupid small village where the locals apparently:

So basically I guess you could say that my parents are sending me to a place where religious pilgrims, doves, and villagers all hand wash their delicates right smack in the middle of the town square.

And I don’t think I need to point out how it really doesn’t get any worse than that.

Not to mention how I did absolutely nothing to deserve any of this in the first place. Since it’s not like I got in trouble, or did anything illegal or bad, and yet, here I am, the one being punished.

I mean, just because my parents decided to wreck their lives and get divorced shouldn’t mean they get to wreck my life too. Isn’t it enough that they’re robbing me of a two-parent home, as well as their mutual guidance, stability, and security?

DO THEY REALLY HAVE TO WRECK MY ENTIRE FREAKING SUMMER TOO???

Apparently, they do.

Because according to my mom’s shrink/life coach, I need to be “removed from all negative influences,” and shielded from “any harmful issues that may arise during this turbulent time,” so that my parents can “work out their issues in private,” so I can return to a “peaceful household.” Which may sound all fine and reasonable on paper, but here’s the thing—how does she know what I’ll return to? And how can she guarantee it’ll be
PEACEFUL
?

And more importantly,
WILL I EVEN BE ABLE TO RECOGNIZE MY OWN LIFE ONCE I’M ALLOWED TO RETURN TO IT?

Or will they have hacked away at it so much, that by the time I get back, there’ll be nothing left that’s even remotely familiar?

Because last night, when I came home from Amanda’s, almost a full two hours past curfew, braced and ready for big-time trouble, my mom and dad were so involved in one of their never-ending arguments they didn’t even notice I was back, much less late. Heck, they probably weren’t even aware that I was even gone in the first place—that’s how bad it’s gotten.

And just as I was sneaking past the downstairs guest room (where my dad’s been camping out for the last three months), and heading upstairs to my room, I completely froze, with my eyes bugged out and my jaw on the floor, as I distinctly heard them use the words—
sell the house—move
—and—
Cyber School.

In. That. Order.

And now, because of that, pretty much all I can think about is:

I’m totally serious. That’s exactly what they called her, and they didn’t even laugh when they said it. They’d say things like: “Your crazy aunt Tally sent you a birthday card,” and then my dad would drop a blue airmail envelope onto my desk. Or, “Your crazy aunt Tally made you these earrings,” then my mom would jiggle something dangly and beaded in her hand.

And now, just because they’ve decided they can no longer stand each other, can no longer communicate without screaming, crazy Aunt Tally is suddenly the perfect summer chaperone?

I mean,
ARE THEY JOKING?

And just exactly
HOW
am I supposed to survive, for a
WHOLE ENTIRE SUMMER,
with no car, no cell phone, no Sidekick, no Sephora, no Abercrombie, no parties, no friends, and no Internet access???

Not to mention how this was supposed to be my best summer yet, the one I’d been working toward since practically forever. Because after years of going through the motions of a ho-hum existence, after years of being just another blank face in the crowd, I finally penetrated Amanda Harmon’s inner circle. And I’m not talking clinging to the outer fringes along with all the other wannabe dorks; no I’m talking right inside the Promised Land. I’m talking the glorious, golden, inner sanctum of those who are allowed to hang at her house, ride in her car, and maintain a spot on her cell phone speed dial.